Blind God's bluff

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I realized I was slumped across the table. I shoved at it and groggily lifted my head. It looked like I’d only been out a few seconds. The Pharaoh was raking chips from the pot.

The pot that didn’t belong to him. Because he’d turned over pocket jacks, and the river was a blank. Which meant he’d never improved.

“No,” I wheezed, and spit dripped out of my mouth. Heart pounding like it was going to tear itself apart, hand shaking, I fumbled over my cards. “Two pair. I win. You’re out.”

“If I simply take the chips anyway,” he answered, “do you think that you can stop me?”

“‘There’s gamesmanship,’” I quoted, “‘and then there’s mere brutality.’”

He looked for me for a second, and then laughed. “Touche, mortal, touche. The pot and the tournament are yours.”

And just like that, the pain and the sickness disappeared. In fact, I felt great. It was like all the life the hex had sucked out of me flooded back in an instant.

I stood up and shook the mummy’s hand. His fingers felt light and brittle like papier-mache, and even though I’d figured out he wasn’t as fragile as he looked, I still made sure I didn’t really squeeze.

The spectators applauded, some politely, some like they meant it. A’marie was one of the ones with a big grin on her face. I winked at her.

Then I noticed the one guy who wasn’t clapping. No points for guessing it was Wotan. His bloodshot eyes glared at me, and his hairy, tattooed hands repeatedly clenched on the scabbard of the ruined sword lying across his thighs.

I didn’t like all that hatred coming my way, but I told myself that with the tournament over, it didn’t really matter. Timon was my problem now. I looked at his face, but his polite little tight-lipped smile wasn’t easy to read.

Whatever he was feeling, satisfaction, relief, resentment, or, most likely, a mix of all of them, I guessed I ought to say something to him. I nodded and said, “There you go. We did it.”

Wotan stood up. “‘We?’”

“Yeah,” I said, “we. Timon coached me. He taught me magic. I couldn’t have made it without him.”

Wotan shrugged those ginormous shoulders. “I’m sure that’s true, human. I just wonder whether you really believe it. Because, if you respected Timon as is his due, how could you ever have dared to treat him as you did?”

Leticia glided up to him and touched him on the forearm. I felt a little tingle in my arm just from imagining how it felt. “The game’s over, darling man,” she purred. “It’s time to relax and share a toast.”

“And for Timon to take possession of his winnings,” said the Pharaoh.

The Tuxedo Team brought in a little wooden chest. One guy carried it, while four others surrounded it like guards. They set it on the poker table and then brought out six musty-smelling rolls of parchment tied with faded ribbon. I figured they were the deeds to the fiefs.

The lords gathered around in the pool of light under the chandelier, and then everybody but Timon swore an oath renouncing all claim to whatever he or she had bet. The Pharaoh gave up Pedernales, in the Dominican Republic; Wotan, Dubois, Wyoming, and a bunch of land surrounding it; Queen, a piece of Mexico City; and Leticia, Cincinnati. She also read a statement Gimble had left behind forfeiting Toms River, New Jersey. It was quite a haul, and Timon’s tight little smile gradually changed to a smirk.

At the end of the ceremony, the same servant who’d taken the deeds out of the box started putting them back in. But Wotan picked up one of them before he could get to it. “Tampa,” he said.

Timon scowled at him. “Yes. Tampa. One of my dominions.”

“For now, at least,” Wotan said. But he didn’t take the hint and put down the deed. “An interesting place. Now that I’ve seen it, I’d have to say you staked the finest fief of any of us. I hate to think of it passing into the hands of someone undeserving.”

“It’s not ‘passing’ anywhere!” Timon snapped. “The fool hasn’t got a chance!”

“I understand why you feel that way,” Wotan said. “It would be astonishing if a human could beat you, especially in dream. But then again, he beat the rest of us.”

“Look,” I said to Wotan. “Timon and I made a deal, and we’re going through with it no matter what you say. So mind your own damn business.”

“Billy has a point,” said Queen. “He and the dream walker did agree. We all witnessed it.”

Wotan smiled an ugly smile. “True enough. I was just making conversation. Apparently no one else wants to hear it, so let’s drink instead.” He tossed the parchment back into the box.

A’marie brought in a dusty old bottle of champagne. It turned out to be for lords only. Even the stooge who’d actually won the tournament didn’t rate a glass. And they could have given me Queen’s share, because she only took a couple drops, dribbled over the gray sludge in the bottom of her flute.

The other lords toasted Timon, and the rest of us served up a second little round of applause. When it died down, Wotan said, “Now the tournament is really finished. That means the human isn’t Timon’s champion anymore.”

I wasn’t sure why that was important, but I felt a cold little twinge of uneasiness. Trying to hide it, I said, “I thought you were going to lay off.”

“As did I,” the Pharaoh murmured.

“I’m just saying,” Wotan said, “now that the mantle of the champion is gone, it makes sense to take a look at what was underneath. And clearly, it’s human, even if it does have a drop of our blood and some of our power. It certainly didn’t grow up among us. It doesn’t understand our traditions, and it hasn’t really given its fealty to any lord. Otherwise, it would never have showed Timon such disrespect.”

“If he wants to get even,” I said, “he’s going to have his chance.” I turned to Timon. “Right?”

He hesitated. “In point of fact, yes. So I don’t know why we’re talking about it.”

“It’s just that I hate to see this wretch take advantage of one of his betters a second time,” Wotan said. “We all love a good game, but we shouldn’t let it cloud our judgment. Look how one-sided your bet really is. You’re staking a fief. The human’s merely putting up his miserable self, which by rights is already your property anyway.”

“Maybe you think so,” I said, “but he and I still have a deal.”

“Even if you win,” said Wotan, ignoring me, “what have you won? His faithful service, just because he pledged it? You already know how treacherous he is.”

“‘Treacherous,’” I said. “That’s good, coming from you.”

“Or the right to watch him die in agony?” asked Wotan, still fixed on Timon. “You don’t have to win a game for that.”

Timon hesitated again. I really wished he’d stop doing that. “I gave my oath.”

“Yes,” Wotan said. “To play him when your eyes are fully healed. And it would be dishonorable for you to try to hurt him in the meantime. But honor doesn’t require you to protect him. Not after he disobeyed you. Not after he encouraged disloyalty among your servants. Not after he gouged your eyes and laughed.”

“I didn’t laugh,” I said. “And I knew they’d heal.”

Timon kept talking to Wotan. “Tell me what you want.”

“Just tell me Billy is neither your champion, your vassal, nor your thrall. It’s simply the same thing he’s asserted himself, by trying to contend with you as an equal.”

Timon stood and thought about it a few seconds. Then he said, “Billy is neither my champion, my vassal, nor my thrall.”

The ballroom fell silent, as everybody else figured out exactly what that meant a second before I did. In my defense, it had been a long couple days.

Wotan leered at me. “In that case, little man, I have your lord’s permission to hunt you, just like any other human I happen to meet.”

“Run!” screamed A’marie.

It sounded like good advice. But instead I lunged forward and grabbed one of the chairs. As Queen, Leticia, and Timon backpedaled, and Davis jerked the Pharaoh away from the table, I swung it over my head, and, bellowing, smashed it into Wotan’s face.

The chair broke apart in my hands, and I saw that it had cut and scraped his nose, cheeks, and forehead. But it hadn’t rocked him backward or even knocked the grin off his face. His eyes completely red with blood, he grew and changed.

You probably think you know what it looked like from movies, and you’re not completely wrong. But, his fancy clothes splitting and ripping into rags, other things popping and cracking under his skin, Wotan got taller and put on more muscle than any wolfman I ever saw on TV. His arms stretched long like an ape’s, and the claws that hooked out from the tips of his fingers belonged on a lion or tiger. His head turned into a mix of wolf and bear, and as all that black body hair lengthened and thickened into fur, it gave off a rank animal stink. Everything happened fast, too. My eyes could hardly track the changes.

I decided A’marie had the right idea. I spun around and ran out into the lobby, scared shitless and also mad at how unfair this was. I’d won the damn tournament. At the very least I deserved some down time.

Wotan finished changing and charged the doorway. He was running on all fours, and since his arms were now longer than his legs, it could have been clumsy. It wasn’t. What it was, was fast.

Which might mean I could knock him out like I had the fire shark. I flashed the Thunderbird and plugged the opening with an invisible wall.

He slammed into it, bounced back, roared a word in some other language, and threw himself at it again. This time he broke through, and the feedback jolted me like a punch. The servants on duty in the lobby screamed and cringed at the sight of him.

I knew I’d never make it to my car. I had to fight, so I burned what mojo I had left to call Shadow. Fortunately, he answered fast. He filled me up in an instant, like an explosion of black paint.

It felt great, too. I wasn’t even a little bit scared anymore, and with fear gone, my hate was pure and eager. Joyful in a horrible way that didn’t feel horrible from the inside.

Wotan sensed the change in me. He snarled at it, but it didn’t slow him down. He sprang, landed on his feet only, and slashed at me with the claws on his right hand.

I ducked, and the fur on his forearm ruffled my hair. Then I snap-kicked at the inside of his knee.

He shifted the leg, and I only grazed the kneecap. It probably hurt, but it certainly hadn’t crippled him.

Since I was inside his reach, I felt more than saw him trying to catch me in a bear hug. I dropped low and spun left, slamming my elbow into his kidney as I escaped. He grunted.

He whirled to keep me in front of him, too, and his left hand raked at me. I retreated out of range. As he chased after me, he swung his right arm up and over like you’d swat a fly on a tabletop. The flyswatter was a couch he’d somehow grabbed without me noticing, sinking his claws and fingers into the armrest.

I jumped back again. Wood cracked when the sofa slammed into the marble floor, but it didn’t fall to pieces like my chair had. Wotan instantly picked it up again and whipped it in a horizontal arc.

That one caught me. If I hadn’t been backpedaling, and if the couch hadn’t been upholstered, it probably would have broken several bones. As it was, it knocked me flying through the air. When I thumped down, I slid until my head rammed into the base of the front desk. The little bell on top of it dinged.

For a split second, everything was blurry, meaningless, and then Shadow’s viciousness snapped it back into focus. I kept on acting dazed and helpless, though, until Wotan stepped in, took the remains of the sofa in both hands, and lifted it over his head.

Then I rolled up onto my knees, and, screaming, drove a punch into his crotch. That locked him up, and I scrambled to my feet. He towered over me like Sylvester, so I jumped like I had to steal Sly’s magic neckerchief and hooked a second punch into his Adam’s apple.

As I touched down, he made a choking sound. I barked a laugh-just one mean little ha! — and cocked my arm for a spear-hand strike to the solar plexus.

Then, dropping the couch, Wotan threw himself forward. His furry bulk plowed into me and slammed me back into the desk. The impact hammered pain across my back and knocked the wind out of me.

Stunned, crushed between Wotan’s weight and the object behind me, I couldn’t even move. If he followed up, he could kill me easy. But instead, he stumbled backward. My punches had hurt him bad enough that he felt like he had to take a moment to recover.

But it didn’t take him long, or at least, no longer than it took me. When I sidled away from the desk, he pivoted immediately, and moved as fast as he had before.

That made one of us. My left leg was gimpy, and my scrapes and bruises-I hoped that was all they were-were starting to throb.

And even worse, when Wotan came back on the attack, there was more science in it. He faked high, then ripped low, or the other way around. He got me used to one rhythm, then suddenly switched to another. He tried to push me back and pin me against a wall.

I guessed the way I fought had earned his respect. Great. Someone could carve that on my tombstone.

Because was that how it was going. So far I was ducking, dodging, blocking, and keeping myself alive. But I wasn’t landing many more shots of my own, and I didn’t even know if it would matter anyway. If hitting him in the groin and the throat hadn’t stopped him, what would?

The one thing I had going for me was that I still wasn’t afraid. Not with Shadow driving. All I felt was a deep, cold anger. A determination to kill my enemy no matter what.

He lunged. I scrambled straight back. He kept coming, and I went on backpedaling, trying to look like I’d forgotten how to do anything else. Then I dodged sideways and stuck out my foot.

It was like trying to trip a charging rhino. It almost threw me off balance when my ankle hooked his. But not quite. He pitched forward. I locked my hands together and hammered them down at the nape of his neck.

But the blow never landed. Even in the middle of falling down, he somehow knew what was coming and wrenched himself around to swipe at me. I had to jerk away, and didn’t jerk far enough. His claws ripped my shirt and the skin underneath. The force of the swing knocked me staggering off balance.

Wotan got his feet under him before I did. He bent at the knees to pounce. Then the sound of piping swirled through the air, and he hesitated. It gave me the extra second I needed to get my balance back, and then the music suddenly cut off. I assumed Timon or one of his stooges had made A’marie stop playing. Because hey, you wouldn’t want me to have any help against a giant with a six-foot reach and claws that could cut metal. Then it wouldn’t be a fair fight.

Everybody was either standing along the walls or in the doorway of the Grand Ballroom to watch the fight, and I caught a glimpse of A’marie as Wotan and I circled one another. To my relief, no one had hurt her, which made one of us. She gasped, and her silvery eyes popped open wide, when she got a good look at the blood running down my chest.

Another quarter turn showed me the Pharaoh with Davis standing beside him. The mummy blew a stream of smoke, and it twisted and swirled into shapes like it had before. Only this time, they were hieroglyphics.

At first that didn’t mean anything to me, and then it did. It seemed like the Pharaoh was giving me a hint. But I was going to have to get tricky if I wanted to find out for sure. Because I couldn’t just run back into the ballroom. Wotan would catch me if I tried.

He roared, spit flying from his jaws, and rushed me. I retreated, stooped, caught the edge of one of the Persian rugs, and flipped it upward. Shadow’s aim was good even when I was beat up and bleeding. The carpet fell over Wotan’s head.

He clawed at me anyway, and would have torn my face off if I hadn’t dodged. I ran around him to a little table with a porcelain vase of flowers on it. I snatched up the vase and, without looking or breaking stride, lobbed it over my shoulder in the direction of the windows. It crashed down a moment later.

The idea was to buy me one more second. To make Wotan look the wrong direction as he yanked the rug off his head.

Maybe it worked. Because in another moment, I was almost to the ballroom doorway, and he hadn’t overtaken me yet.

But there were fight fans blocking my way. Luckily, they started to scramble aside. It made enough of a hole for me to bull my way through. I ran on.

Behind me, someone screamed, and the floor shook. I realized Wotan was rushing up behind me like an Amtrak train hurtling down a track. I’d meant to circle around the poker table, but I dived and rolled across the felt instead, smearing it with blood as I tumbled along. I knocked over clattering stacks of chips. My foot clipped the chest of deeds. Then I dropped onto my feet and stumbled onward.

I heard the crash when Wotan flung the table out of his way. Easily, I’m sure, but it cost him another instant. Time enough for me to make it to the chair where he’d been sitting, grab the sword he’d left there, and jerk it out of the scabbard.

Before, I’d sensed that the sword hated everybody in the world except Wotan. But the Pharaoh had said he’d turned it against its owner, and now I could feel that, too. It would still have been happy to cut anybody who came in range, but its bloodlust was focused on the giant who stopped short at the sight of it. In fact, it almost felt like it was trying to yank itself out of my grip and fly at him, although really, that was just a mental thing.

So that was all good. It still left the fact that I’d never even touched a sword before. But the Army had taught me to fight with a knife, and given me about two minutes of bayonet training. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt and hoped that what I knew would transfer.

Meanwhile, Wotan snarled and snatched up a chair. The sword had canceled out his reach advantage, but now he had it back.

I rushed him and hacked at his fingers. He blocked with the chair, and the sword clanked against it. He straightened his arms and ran at me.

I twisted out of the way a split second before the chair legs would have rammed into me. And if normal me had managed just that, it would have been amazing, considering the shape I was in. But normal me didn’t have Shadow’s talent for dishing out punishment, and maybe the sword helped, too. I kept pivoting, spun completely around, and cut into Wotan’s back as he lunged by.

The sword didn’t chop into his spine like I wanted. But at least it made him roar and lurch off balance. At least, when the blade jerked out of the wound, I finally got to see some of his blood. I grinned and ran at him, trying to land another shot before he could turn back around.

But he did turn, and the chair turned with him, whirling just an inch or two off the floor. I couldn’t dodge it in a sensible way, so I tried to jump high into the air and let it sweep by underneath me.

The hero in an action movie could have done it. Maybe even Shadow could have done it, if I hadn’t been beat to hell and bleeding all over myself. But as it was, I didn’t do it. The chair smashed into my legs and smashed pain into them. I slammed down on the floor.

Wotan swung the chair repeatedly, and I flung myself back and forth to keep it from pounding down on me. It was like a stamping shoe, and I was a roach that didn’t want to get squashed. Finally it broke apart in his hands-we were having trouble killing each other, but we were hell on the furniture-and maybe that startled him, because he hesitated. I wrenched myself around and sliced his leg just below the knee.

He bellowed. I tried to scramble up and stick the sword in his chest, but more pain ripped through my left leg when it took my weight and I almost fell back down. It made the thrust clumsy and slow, and Wotan was able to backpedal out of range.

But he almost fell down doing that. We were both hobbling, me, thanks to a broken bone, probably, and him because of whatever damage the sword had done.

He snarled and said, “I’m… stronger.” He was forcing the words out with an animal’s throat and tongue, and I almost couldn’t understand them. “No dancing around… I win.”

I just glared. Shadow wasn’t much of a talker.

He wasn’t a quitter, either. Panting, what was left of my clothes glued to me with blood and sweat, I limped forward.

Wotan looked around, found another chair-the damn things were everywhere-and threw it.

He was right. I couldn’t dodge like before. I tried, but the chair clipped me anyway. Reeling, fighting to stay on my feet, I stumbled partway around.

At once I heard or maybe just sensed him rushing me as best he could. I lurched back around with my right arm raised like I wanted to cut at his head.

He grabbed it by the wrist and stopped it dead. Then the red eyes widened when he noticed the sword wasn’t in my right hand anymore.

It was in my left, where I’d shifted it during the instant my back was turned. I stabbed it up under his ribs, and it drove in all the way to the guard. Inside my head, the sword squealed like a little girl who just got what she really wanted for Christmas.

Wotan stiffened. His fingers clenched even tighter and ground the bones in my wrist. Then he toppled, and dragged me down with him.

I watched him, trying to figure out if he was still alive, and kept my fingers wrapped around the sword. My DI taught me that a knife sometimes does more damage if you stick it in, then pump the handle. I wasn’t sure it worked the same with a sword, but I was ready to pump like a son of a bitch if there was any chance that it would help.

But I didn’t need to. After a while I could tell that Wotan wasn’t breathing.

I twisted my wrist out of his death grip, nicking it on his claws in the process. Then I stood up and gimped toward one of the human-looking servants, just because he was the closest. I figured I’d kill him, and then work my way through the rest of the crowd.

It was crazy for all kinds of reasons, but with Shadow at the wheel, I didn’t care. All that mattered was hate. I hated everyone who’d tried to kill me or mess with me in any way. I hated everyone who hadn’t tried to help me against Wotan. I hated because I hated because I hated.

People shrank back when they saw what was in my face. Everybody but A’marie. She came forward, so I aimed the point of the sword at her chest.

She didn’t flinch. “You don’t want to do that,” she said.

Sure I did. She was the one who’d had me buried alive. But then something happened inside me. Maybe normal me dragged Shadow away from the controls, or maybe my wounds just caught up with me. My hand shook, and the sword dropped out of it. The room spun, and I fell sideways.

Metal clanked as A’marie kicked the blade farther away from me. Then she threw herself down beside me and pressed her hands against the cuts on my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It wasn’t me.”

“Shush.” She turned her head and shouted, “Somebody, help him!”

“Stand back,” said Queen. She handed a couple of her babies to her maids, came forward, and chanted words I didn’t know in a voice that buzzed.

The buzz made it feel like bugs were crawling all over my skin and inside the gashes, too. That part itched and stung, but at the end of the spell, I felt a jolt of energy like Red might have given me if I’d had any mojo left to call him. The cuts scabbed over all at once.

I sat up, took a couple deep breaths, and said, “Thanks.” I smiled at A’marie. “Both of you.”

The Pharaoh blew a stream of smoke. “I recommend removing Wotan’s head, just to make sure. It’s the victor’s prerogative if you wish to claim it. But I believe that even after Queen’s ministrations, you still have a fractured wrist and leg. So, if you’d care to delegate… ”

“Sure,” I said. The memory of being Shadow was like a shame hangover, and the thought of dishing out any more violence, even to a man-eating monster who was already dead, made me sick to my stomach.

“Then Davis will attend to it.” The Pharaoh smiled down at the corpse. “Let’s see how well you cope with decapitation.”